"At last! at last!" exclaimed Gentz, in a tone of fervid tenderness,
approaching Marianne, who went to meet him with a winning smile. "Do
you know, dearest, that you have driven me to despair for a whole
week? Not a word, not a message from you! Whenever I came to see
you, I was turned away. Always the same terrible reply, 'Madame is
not at home,' while I felt your nearness in every nerve and vein of
mine, and while my throbbing heart was under the magic influence of
your presence. And then to be turned away! No reply whatever to my
letters, to my ardent prayers to see you only for a quarter of an
hour."

"Oh, you ungrateful man!" she said, smiling, "did I not send for you
to-day? Did I not give you this rendezvous quite voluntarily?"

"You knew very well that I should have died if your heart had not
softened at last. Oh, heavenly Marianne, what follies despair made
me commit already! In order to forget you, I plunged into all sorts
of pleasures, I commenced new works, I entered upon fresh love-
affairs. But it was all in vain. Amidst those pleasures I was sad;
during my working hours my mind was wandering, and in order to
impart a semblance of truth and tenderness to my protestations of
love, I had to close my eyes and imagine YOU were the lady whom I
was addressing-."

"And then you were successful?" asked Marianne, smiling.

"Yes, then I was successful," he said, gravely; "but my new lady-
love, the beloved of my distraction and despair, did not suspect
that I only embraced her so tenderly because I kissed in her the
beloved of my heart and of my enthusiasm."

"And who was the lady whom you call the beloved of your distraction
and despair?" asked Marianne.

"Ah, Marianne, you ask me to betray a woman?"

"No, no; I am glad to perceive that you are a discreet cavalier. You
shall betray no woman. I will tell you her name. The beloved of your
distraction and despair was the most beautiful and charming lady in
Berlin--it was the actress Christel Eughaus. Let me compliment you,
my friend, on having triumphed with that belle over all those
sentimental, lovesick princes, counts, and barons. Indeed, you have
improved your week of 'distraction and despair' in the most
admirable manner."

"Still, Marianne, I repeat to you, she was merely my sweetheart for
the time being, and I merely plunged into this adventure in order to
forget you."

"Then you love me really?" asked Marianne.

"Marianne, I adore you! You know it. Oh, now I may tell you so.
Heretofore you repelled me and would not listen to my protestations
of love because I was a MARRIED man. Now, however, I have got rid of
my ignominious fetters, Marianne; now I am no longer a married man.
I am free, and all the women in the world are at liberty to love me.
I am as free as a bird in the air!"

"And like a bird you want to flit from one heart to another?"

"No, most beautiful, most glorious Marianne; your heart shall be the
cage in which I shall imprison myself."

"Beware, my friend. What would you say if there was no door in this
cage through which you might escape?"

"Oh, if it had a door, I should curse it."

"Then you love me so boundlessly as to be ready to sacrifice to me
the liberty you have scarcely regained?"

"Good Heaven, what a profound knowledge of human nature our great
Goethe has got, and how proud I am to be allowed to call him a
friend of mine--Heirathen, Kind, ist wunderlich Wort."

"Marianne, you are cruel and unjust, you--"

"And you know the next two lines of the poem?" she interrupted him.
"The maiden replied to him:"

"'Heirathen wir eben,
Das Ubrige wird sich geben.'"

"You mock me," exclaimed Gentz, smiling, "and yet you know the
maiden's assurance would not prove true in our case, and that there
is something rendering such a happiness, the prospect of calling you
my wife, an utter impossibility. Unfortunately, you are no
Christian, Marianne. Hence I cannot marry you." [Footnote: Marriages
between Christians and Jews were prohibited in the German states at
that period.]

"And if I were a Christian?" she asked in a sweet, enchanting voice.

He fixed his eyes with a searching glance upon her smiling, charming
face.

"What!" he asked, in evident embarrassment. "If you were a
Christian? What do you mean, Marianne?"

"I mean, Frederick, that, I have given the highest proof of my love
to the man who loves me so ardently, constantly, and faithfully. For
his sake I have become a Christian, Yesterday I was baptized. Now,
my friend, I ask you once more, I ask you as a Christian woman:
Gentz, will you marry me? Answer me honestly and frankly, my friend!
Remember that it is 'the beloved of your heart and of your
enthusiasm,' as you called me yourself a few moments ago, who now
stands before you and asks for a reply. Remember that this moment
will be decisive for our future--speedily, nay, immediately
decisive. For you see I have removed all obstacles. I have become a
Christian, and I tell you I am ready to become your wife in the
course of the present hour. Once more, then, Gentz, will you marry
me?"

He had risen and paced the room in great excitement. Marianne
followed him with a lurking glance and a scornful smile, but when he
now stepped back to her, she quickly assumed her serious air.

"Marianne," he said, firmly, "you want to know the truth, and I love
you too tenderly to conceal it from you. I will not, must not,
cannot marry you. I WILL not, because I am unable to bear once more
the fetters of wedded life. I MUST not, because I should make you
unhappy and wretched. I CANNOT, while, doing so, I should act
perfidiously toward a friend of mine, for you know very well that
the Prince von Reuss is my intimate friend."

"And _I_ am his mistress. You wished to intimate that to me by your
last words, I suppose?"

"I wished to intimate that he loves you boundlessly, and he is a
generous, magnanimous man, whose heart would break if any one should
take you from him."